Chuck says it doesn’t matter what you write. Chuck says once you make a move like gathering and categorizing your art you say, “What now?” That’s a hard thing to get past according to Chuck. He says go ahead and write whatever. Go back to your roots and antagonize friends about bikes. Write some real stuff then change the names and make it fiction. Send June, Duane, and Manny off to war, or make them dress up like Stormtroopers and go to Comic-Con.
Rail about politics or write a letter to your old high school friends you just can’t see fit to hear from anymore. Tell them you would rather heave vomit into the toilet until blood vessels pop in your eyes than listen to their platitudes that things will turn out okay, that your friends who are not white, male, straight, or who conveniently have avoided or evaded any sense of dysphoria will be fine. Chuck says it is OK to write about that. It was just time for reform and if you haven’t served than maybe you don’t exactly understand freedom and appreciate freedom as much as they do, which is why they feel obligated to remove it from your life experience. Write a how-to guide for black people to follow when stopped by the police. If they would simply follow the orders of the law enforcement officer than everything will be fine, routine. In every instance they tell you, if you look at the details, the black people did something wrong and got shot, even Tamir Rice, Freddie Gray, Jordan Edwards, and those kids who got themselves shot standing on stranger’s porches begging for help in the night.
My old homeboys. We called each other homeboy, gave ourselves nicknames like rappers on television. I’m the Fresh Kid, and we did our best to ape black culture because it seemed so much cooler than our own. Chuck D and the S1W- pride, loyalty, courage, and even a uniform- kind of like the military. Defenders of Funk forever right? Right up until the funk gets shot. Get your asses in your deplorable baskets and don’t come out until I say when.
Chuck said it would be OK if I wrote that.
It’s hot and humid and everyone feels like partying, but I don’t feel much like partying. I feel like digging a tunnel in the floor with a trap door and a little room underneath where me and my sweetheart can tip-toe down the ladder and stay very still and quiet until the knocking on the door goes away. The WiFi sucks down there too, but it is cool and surprisingly dry with the fan blowing.
Maybe it will be easier to write down there. Manny can get organized to talk to that woman about getting back in the well and healing America, and Duane and June can finally get his uncle’s car running and get on the road to Florida, because honestly, the author knows not the first thing about Gary, Indiana so this story needs to get on familiar ground. I mean, fiction is hard enough right? Or maybe that’s the point, to make it hard. That’s what Chuck says. He says don’t put puppies in your song because people like puppies. That’s the worst kind of art. Write a song about black kids that makes people feel as warm as they feel about puppies. Now that is art, so Chuck says.